


New Growth

by Linorien



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Humor, Oneshot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-09
Updated: 2018-01-09
Packaged: 2019-03-02 21:35:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 891
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13326828
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Linorien/pseuds/Linorien
Summary: Merlin and Arthur might be done with their quest, but the Perilous Lands aren't done with Gwaine.





	New Growth

**Author's Note:**

> I got a lovely comment on an old Merlin fic yesterday and it inspired me to write this little oneshot. Un-beta'd so apologies for any errors.

 

Gwaine woke up and only his quick reflexes kept him from falling out of the tree. Hanging in the air, holding onto the thick branch by his legs, Gwaine tried to remember how he had ended up in this situation. 

He remembered parting ways with Merlin and Arthur after the quest-that-totally-didn’t-happen in the very-definitely-perilous lands. He wandered after that, letting his steed pick the direction. His sense of direction wasn’t much better than Guinglot’s and he had no place he was aiming toward.

He didn’t recall stopping in a tavern. He held a hand to his face and breathed out. His breath didn’t smell like drink. Well, no more than usual. So that didn’t explain the confusion. 

Granted, part of the confusion might be due to the blood rushing to his head. He strained his muscles until he could grab the branch with his hands and flip himself around. He waited until his bearings were a little straightened out and then dropped to the ground. 

Gwaine hit the grass with bent knees, but still he stumbled. From behind him he heard his horse snort. “Shut it, Guinglot,” he muttered. Though it was good to see his horse still had his saddle bags. People had tried to steal them before, but Guinglot was a fiesty one. Gwaine looked again. There was no blood on his teeth, so chances were no one was chasing him.

None of this explained why he had been sleeping in a tree. 

“You’re sleeping in a tree because last night this was a swamp.”

Gwaine looked around, trying to find the source of the voice. “Where are you?”

“Little lower.” 

Ah. Wait, was that? “You were at the bridge,” Gwaine realised. “The one leading into the Perilous Lands. What are you doing here?”

“Where do you think you are, Strength?” Grettir asked, leaning on his staff. 

And wasn’t that a good question. He looked around him. The trees didn’t look familiar. For one, they were much shorter than the other forests in Albion. And it was quiet. There was no birdsong, no sound of distant animals calling out to each other in squeaks and howls. “Am I dreaming? I’ve never been in this place.”

“I think you know that this is no dream.”

“Ah, right. No women.” Grettir rolled his eyes. “So where am I?”

“You are in Cambria,” he said. “What you know as the Perilous Lands.”

This was the Perilous lands? It was so green. Too green. Only yester– two– Not long ago this was a scorching wasteland. Gwaine didn’t know much about farming, but “there’s no way all this has grown so fast.” No way, unless....

“Magic,” Grettir confirmed. “There was a curse upon this land.” He started walking and Guinglot followed. Gwaine did the same. “The land was tied to the health of the king. It was never meant to be a curse. The king remained strong and healthy and the people stayed strong off the plentiful land. Sure there were battles, but the king always had the time to pass off the life of the land to the heir. 

“Or they all had the chance until the Fisher King. Being a warlock, he ruled for many decades. His body remained hale, fighting off common diseases. But one year it was too much.” 

When Grettir fell silent, Gwaine sensed that this was more than a history lesson to the bridgekeeper. 

“It was a disease, nay a plague, designed to target folk with magic. It poisoned the water and spread like phoenix flames. The population was wiped out in less than a fortnight. Only the Fisher King was left alive.”

“How did he survive?” Gwaine asked. 

“Very few things can kill a true warlock. Magic is tenacious. It heals the body even when the soul has given up. The king grew weaker every day, but then he stagnated. He no longer ate, no longer drank, he lived only because his magic would not let him die.”

“And the land died with him.”

“Yes. The king had no heir to pass the connection to. And even if he did, he knew he would outlive them all. It was better than letting the land die entirely.”

“So why does it look like this now? Where is the Fisher King?”

“He has died.”

Just when he thought things were starting to make sense. “Shouldn’t everything be dead then? Was the curse lifted?”

“The life of the land was passed the the one who killed the king. The one you know as Merlin.”

Gwaine stopped in his tracks. Merlin had killed the Fisher King? The Fisher King was still alive when he was here? Did Merlin know? Actually he could probably guess at the last one.

“Merlin has no idea, does he?” He lengthened his steps to catch up. 

Grettir shook his head. “It is unlikely. And if he does not know, do not tell him right away. He has many burdens to bear; this one can wait.”

“When should I tell him?”

“You will know when the time is right. But you are the Steward of the land. Protect the king. Protect the land.” 

Gwaine nodded seriously and bowed his head. “I accept the responsibility.” He looked up and Grettir was gone. “Don’t suppose you could point me toward the nearest tavern?” Disembodied chuckles were his only response. 


End file.
